


Tongue Tied

by Mackem



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Pre-Canon, Prequel, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2648426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/pseuds/Mackem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She may be in one piece, but her French is decidedly broken. He realises this when he takes a step towards her, and she says... something. Something that means very little to him, as the majority of it certainly isn’t French. But it is angry, and frightened, and the gun remains aimed at his chest. “Mademoiselle, please,” he tries, raising his free hand. “Put the gun away? You’re safe now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tongue Tied

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dairyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairyme/gifts).



> Hullo! It's been awhile, hasn't it? I'm back, with more pointless fic for anybody interested. This was prompted by [Dairyme](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dairyme/profile/) over on [my tumblr](http://dirtymackem.tumblr.com/), with the prompt of "tongue tied". I would like to thank her hugely for cheerleading this and keeping me going with it, and editing it like a superstar. Any mistakes that are made are all my own.
> 
> I've warned for violence purely for a couple of mentions, but I'm mostly doing so to cover my own back; they're over quickly and not described in much detail. Apologies for OCs, too - they are not my forte.

A look-out spots them as they approach the farm. 

It frustrates Marsac for a moment, until he hears one of the bandits yell, “Ride for the base!” and watches him lead the majority of them away from the farm. They cannot be too clever, these thieves; desperate and dangerous, perhaps, but not exactly cunning. 

As most of them turn tail, Marsac catches Cornet's eye. With a few sharp gestures Cornet suggests that he lead most of their troop to follow the criminals, leaving Marsac and a few men to corral those left at the cottage. Marsac does not hesitate to nod his assent. While they are both musketeers and of equal rank, Cornet is both an experienced soldier and a promising leader, and Marsac is happy to defer to his plan. He rides hard for the cottage, leaving Cornet to send a few men after him before he leads the rest of their company away.

A quick glance back leaves Marsac entirely unsurprised to see that Aramis is one of the men who follows him, even without it being ordered. The knowledge that he would gladly follow Marsac is oddly thrilling. He gives him a quick smile, and is pleased to see Aramis return it with an exhilarated grin. 

His smile melts into a look of grim determination as the look-out fires on them. It misses, tearing apart turf in place of flesh, but it is close enough to leave every man veering off in alarm.

Except Aramis. He merely halts his horse and reaches for his arquebus.

A few short months ago, Marsac would have considered such an action nothing short of a plea for a hole in the head. They are riding uphill, towards a dense copse, and his target is well hidden among the spreading branches. Now, however, Marsac rides on, confident that Aramis has their back; but he cannot resist the temptation to glance back and watch him in action.

Even after months in his company, he finds himself astonished by the skill of the recruit. The look-out watches them from a platform in a tree, hurriedly reloading from the shelter of thick foliage, and yet a shot from Aramis takes him down as surely as if he were mere inches away.

Aramis looks particularly satisfied with himself as he spurs his horse on once more, but there is no time for congratulations as Marsac draws near the cottage.

Most of the bandits have gone, riding for their base, but still those that remain outnumber the few musketeers. Perhaps this is why they do not bother to run, instead drawing their weapons at their approach. 

Marsac rides ahead into the yard ahead of his brothers. He does not bother with polite chatter. “Stand down,” he says easily as he draws to a halt, “and, by order of the King, your lives will be spared.”

His offer is not received particularly well.

“Well, listen to that. By order of the King, ey?” one man drawls in return, his face twisted into a sardonic smile. The other men burst into laughter at his words; Marsac takes him to be something of a leader among the group. “And what is _His Majesty_ doing taking an interest in the likes of us?”

“I assure you His Majesty does not care about _you_ in the slightest,” Marsac snorts.

“Oh, don’t he? But he sends you running after us anyway,” the man says pointedly.

“He cares about his people. When they are threatened, the King takes a great interest," Marsac says dryly, looking between the men as he assesses the situation. There are more of them, certainly, but they do not strike him as experienced in fighting; they seem undisciplined and twitchy. Messy, desperate fighters, he suspects, though with the potential to do serious harm if the musketeers drop their guard. They have certainly caused devastation enough while attacking villages for what little coin can be stolen. 

Marsac gestures at his men as they join him, spreading out behind him. “You could say my brothers and I represent his interest.”

“Is that right?” the leader says mock-politely, his eyes cold. The men have moved closer together since the musketeers drew up behind him, the points of their swords raised. This will end in bloodshed, he's sure. “And just who the devil are you, milord?”

“We are His Majesty’s musketeers,” Marsac says. “And you may rest assured that you will not receive a better offer today than being allowed to live.”

“Ain’t that nice, lads! His Majesty is offering us our own lives! To spend in the finest chatelet he has available, I s’pose?” the man snorts, and waves his sword menacingly. “Forgive us if we don’t jump at the offer, boy, but I fancy our chances against you and your toy soldiers.”

“If that is what you wish,” Marsac shrugs, and dismounts to raise his own weapon. He has little time to waste encouraging surrender from people who have killed innocents for a few coins.

“No! He don’t speak for all of us! Spare me, monsieur!” begs the youngest of the group as the rest of the musketeers dismount. His sword clangs to the ground as he raises trembling hands. “I never wanted to do this! They said they’d hurt my sister if I didn't help them!”

“We’ll do more than hurt her once we’re done with you and these sons of whores!” snarls the leader, and raises his pistol at the boy.

Marsac’s dagger finds its way into his throat before he can fire. 

He sinks to the ground, clawing uselessly at his neck as he chokes on the knife in his flesh. A shocked silence falls among the criminals as he jerks on the ground, blood bubbling between his lips. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” Marsac says into the silence. “You may still surrender.”

Their silence is broken by a scream of rage from one of the remaining brigands. “You bastards! Kill them! Kill them all!” he cries, and runs at Marsac with murder in his eyes and his sword aimed at Marsac’s heart.

The ensuing fight is short, but nasty. Marsac parries and catches the man in the stomach, and his brothers take their place by his side. Blood spills freely as the men rush the musketeers and steel meets flesh, and the criminals’ defiant cries soon become gurgles of pain as they are cut down one by one.

Even with their larger numbers, the bandits are no match for the _toy soldiers_ ; before long each man lies dead, empty eyes staring sightlessly as their life drains out onto the cobbles.

Marsac looks around as he catches his breath, searching out each of his men. His eyes land upon Aramis last of all, and he cannot help but smile, relieved to see him alive. He has his gaze aimed at the heavens as he murmurs; when he crosses himself and catches Marsac’s eye, the grin he gives him is almost dazzling. Marsac has to stop himself from going to him, from kissing him desperately and pulling him close, curious to see if the exhilaration of the fight has had a physical effect on him.

He comforts himself with the knowledge that this will come later, when they are alone, and instead retrieves his dagger from the leader's neck. He cleans it before he goes to the young man who surrendered, now cowering against the wall of the cottage. 

“Come along, monsieur,” he says. “You must ride to Paris with us.”

“What will you do with me?” the boy asks, his voice shaking. “I never wanted to help ‘em, I swear it, but they took her - I’m all my sister has, sir, I couldn’t let 'em hurt her!”

“I believe you,” Marsac assures him; the boy had held his sword as if he was terrified of it. “You were brave to protect her, and right to surrender. I’m certain our Captain will petition the King for mercy on your behalf, if you will co-operate.”

“Of course, sir, yes, I will. And... my sister?” the boy whimpers. 

Marsac spares him a tight smile. “Will be fine, I’m certain. Is this all of your companions?” he asks, indicating the bodies before he feels compelled to offer promises he has no means of keeping. “The ones who stayed here?”

The boy pales as he looks at the corpses, but glances between them, and eventually nods. “I think so. Most of ‘em went away to - to the camp, I could take you there, if you want?” he offers, voice trembling as if this is the last thing he wishes to do. Marsac shakes his head.

“I have men following them. No doubt they are being dealt with as we speak,” he says shortly, and indicates the buildings across the yard. “Is this your farm? Do you know what is in those buildings?”

“No, sir. I’m from a village a few miles away,” the boy supplies, suddenly looking as if he’d give anything to be back at home. “This place in’t mine. They - they killed the owners, I think,” he adds weakly. “I didn't see it, it was before they brought me 'ere, but they said they ran ‘em through, and it’d happen to me too, if I didn’t help ‘em.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about any more,” Marsac says heavily. He whistles, and Aramis looks up immediately, setting his eyes on Marsac and seeking instruction in a way which he finds immeasurably satisfying. He smiles and beckons him closer. “Aramis, if you would be so good as to restrain my friend here? He’ll be riding to Paris with us.”

“Of course,” Aramis says easily, and reaches for the rope at his belt.

“My thanks. The rest of you, spread out and search the buildings,” Marsac orders, raising his voice. “There shouldn’t be more of them, but keep your weapons out regardless.”

They split up and head off to investigate. The farm is isolated, and stands on a hill; it's not a bad place to make camp. Marsac is primarily searching for any bandits who may have hidden, but it is not inconceivable that they may used one of the outbuildings to stash some of the money and valuables they’ve stolen. 

What he isn’t looking for is a terrified, gun-wielding woman, but that’s what he finds in the barn. 

He barely has time to step inside before she springs out at him, filthy and shaking and holding a pistol so tightly that her fingers have gone white. Her hand trembles in fright as she aims it at him, and yet her arm does not drop; terror and defiance battle on her face as her eyes fix on him.

“It’s quite all right,” he says, keeping his voice gentle. She’s covered in dirt, but there are pale tracks down her cheeks, no doubt left by her tears. She’s young, he thinks, and seems mostly unharmed, though she’s quivering with frantic fear. “You’re safe now, mademoiselle. They are gone. Are you hurt?”

She may be in one piece, but her French is decidedly broken. He realises this when he takes a step towards her, and she says... something. Something that means very little to him, as the majority of it certainly isn’t French. But it is angry, and frightened, and the gun remains aimed at his chest. “Mademoiselle, please,” he tries, raising his free hand. “Put the gun away? You’re safe now.”

He moves closer to her. She tightens her finger on the trigger, and shouts something vehemently at him.

“The bandits!” he tries again, as if in the intervening moments a miracle has taken place and she will suddenly understand him. “They are dead! You're safe now!”

“Marsac?” comes a familiar voice from outside, and Aramis pushes the door further open as he enters. The pistol swings around to aim at him immediately. Any plans Marsac has to lower his sword fall by the way; he will not risk leaving himself defenseless while the gun is aimed at Aramis.

“Put your hands up, Aramis!” he orders hurriedly, and watches sidelong as he does so, not daring to take his attention from the woman.

“What is happening here?” Aramis asks amiably, his tone more suited to stumbling across a kindle of gambolling kittens even as he approaches with his hands in the air. “Good afternoon, mademoiselle. May we help you?”

“There's no use trying your charm on her,” Marsac says, struggling to keep his own voice light. “She doesn't speak a word of French.”

“Oh?” Aramis murmurs, flashing her a charming smile regardless as he draws up beside Marsac. “Are you certain?”

“Don't you think I'd have told her to lower the gun if I could?” Marsac says sharply, and sighs as the barrel of the gun swings onto him in response. “Mademoiselle, please. We are the King's musketeers. Do you understand me?” he adds, raising his voice in the desperate hope that increased volume will help.

All it gets is her spitting at his feet, and issuing forth a string of what he'd wager is cursing.

Oddly, Aramis seems to brighten at it. “Come on,” Marsac sighs, and tugs at his sleeve. “Perhaps if we back away she'll put it down.”

“A moment, please,” Aramis says in return, stubbornly remaining in place. Marsac is about to make it an order when... 

When Aramis says something he does not understand.

The woman's attention returns to him immediately. She says something, wary and defiant, and Aramis smiles. He points between Marsac and himself, says something in a soft voice, and removes his hat to issue a deep bow.

The woman bursts into tears, drops the gun and falls to her knees.

Aramis is by her side in a flash, wrapping his arms around her as she sobs. He murmurs constantly to her, soft, soothing words that Marsac cannot translate. She speaks to him in return from the midst of her tears, hands wound tight in the material of his shirt.

“Aramis?” Marsac tries, stunned.

“Everything is all right,” Aramis says softly, keeping his attention on the woman. “She'll be fine. She's had a terrible time, but she's come through it. She's had to be very strong,” he adds, with another gentle smile at the woman as he produces a handkerchief for her. “But she is going to be fine, I’m certain of it.”

“You understand her?” Marsac says helplessly.

“Yes,” Aramis says simply in return. He raises his eyes briefly to meet Marsac's. “Could you put away your sword? It's scaring her.”

“Oh. Of course,” Marsac says, feeling as though his grip on the situation is loosening with every moment that passes. He sheathes his sword and issues a stiff bow. “Give her my apologies?”

Aramis says something again, stroking the woman's hair. The words flow from him with ease, without hesitation, wrapping around the woman like a comforting blanket as Marsac watches, his useless tongue lying heavy in his mouth, tangled in thick knots. Eventually, as Aramis soothes her, she sniffles, looks up at Marsac, and murmurs, “ _Gracias_.”

He nods lightly, and watches Aramis help her up. She's weak, and trembling, but gives him a scornful look when he says something and opens his arms as if to carry her. He gets some sharp words that leave him chuckling, and he offers her the crook of his elbow instead. “We'll take her to Paris, won't we?” Aramis asks as she takes his arm. He gives Marsac a pleading look. “She has nobody left here now.”

“Of course. The King may wish to hear her story,” Marsac agrees. The way Aramis smiles in relief is enough to have him biting back a chuckle. “She'll ride with you, I assume?” he asks lightly.

“I would hardly entrust her to somebody who can't understand her,” Aramis says pointedly, and leads her slowly out of the barn. “I'll be back shortly.”

Marsac scoops up her pistol while he's gone. It is well made, and surprisingly ornate, and though the designs are unusual, he's seen something like them before.

Aramis returns after a while, dragging his hand through his hair. “Her name is Leonor. This is her farm,” he says heavily. “They came days ago. Her husband made her hide, but wouldn't hide with her. He hoped they'd listen to him if he begged for mercy, but they cut him down while she watched. She's been hiding from them ever since, all alone, grieving, half-starved…”

“And then she heard fighting, saw me with a sword, and thought we were more of them,” Marsac finishes. He sighs, and shakes his head. “The poor woman. Please, apologise for me? Sincerely.”

“I have,” Aramis says, his eyes warm as he squeezes Marsac's shoulder. “I knew what you'd say.”

“Thank you,” Marsac murmurs. He wants to kiss him, to show his gratitude while they are alone, but instead he holds the pistol out to Aramis. He takes it, visibly bemused. “It matches your sword,” Marsac says lightly, working to keep any hint of a question from his tone, but Aramis chuckles and gives him a fond smile. It seems he can hide nothing from him.

“Not quite matches, perhaps, but they are similar,” he murmurs, with a glance down at the etchings on the pommel of his weapon. He runs his fingers over it, eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiles. “My sword belonged to my grandfather. My mother's father.”

“It's not of French design, is it?” Marsac asks. 

Aramis shakes his head, and raises his eyes to him. “It is Spanish,” he says without hesitation. “As is Leonor. As was my mother.” He pauses, and adds with deliberate lightness, “Is it a problem?”

“Why would it be?” Marsac asks, surprised. 

Aramis merely shrugs. “You would be surprised what some people will take issue with,” he says after a moment, with an evasive smile that does not reach his eyes. 

Marsac moves closer to him instinctively, and settles a hand at his shoulder, fingers brushing his throat. “I won't pry,” he says softly. “Not if you don't wish it. But even if your speaking Spanish, your _being_ Spanish, even if that hadn't just gone a good way towards leaving me in one piece, I would never have a problem with it. It is part of you, and I am glad to know it. I am glad to know anything you would tell me.”

Aramis gapes at him for a moment, caught in such astonishment that Marsac cannot help but laugh at the picture he makes. The laughter is drowned when Aramis surges closer to him, pressing their lips together with such fervent joy that Marsac is left gasping when they part. They share a breathless smile, before Marsac sighs. “We must ride for Paris,” he grumbles. “There is never time for more than a moment.”

“We're much too efficient,” Aramis agrees, and offers a cocky smile. “I suppose it comes with being the best of the best.”

“Your modesty overwhelms me, as ever,” Marsac drawls. He cannot help but tease. “The best, are you? Have you forgotten you're still a recruit?”

“Perhaps, momentarily,” Aramis sighs, but his eyes remain bright. “Aren't I lucky to have you to remind me of my place?”

Marsac grins. “What _is_ the Spanish for 'beneath me'?”

“I'll tell you in Paris,” Aramis smirks, and saunters away.

He does, hours later. It is worth the wait.


End file.
